A Story About Him
by E Salvatore
Summary: This is a story about him, the man on the radio says, and you wonder why that sounds familiar. You wonder who he is. You wonder why his story is so important. You wonder a lot of things, mostly about your own existence. And what you'll have for breakfast tomorrow. You also wonder about the void, but don't we all? Welcome to Night Vale.


**A STORY ABOUT HIM**

**Summary :**_** This is a story about him**_**, the man on the radio says, and you wonder why that sounds familiar. You wonder who **_**he **_**is. You wonder why his story is so important. You wonder a lot of things, mostly about your own existence. And what you'll have for breakfast tomorrow. You also wonder about the void, but don't we all? Welcome to Night Vale.**

**Disclaimer : This is Joseph Fink. The real Joseph Fink. Why would it be anyone else? … No, I'm not Joseph Fink. You're not Joseph Fink. Joseph Fink isn't Joseph Fink. There is no Joseph Fink. So none of us own Night Vale, really. Or something like that. I don't know where I was going with this, actually.**

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><p>Press against your eyelids. Press against your eyelids until you see stars. Harder. Press harder. Press against your eyelids until stars dance around you, until you are walking amongst the stars, lost in the void. The void was within you all along. Welcome to Night Vale.<p>

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This is a story about him. He sits on the floor, or what is left of it. There isn't much left, not of the floor or even the house itself. There is a rocking chair in the corner of the room. He can still see his mother sitting in it. There is a book on the floor, by the chair. His sister had been reading it that day, so many years ago. Across the room, near the rotting door frame, there is a knife. His father had literally brought a knife to a gunfight.

He stands up and walks out of the room, out of the house. He does not know where he will go, only that he will never come back. He gets into his car. The radio turns on along with the engine. The man on the radio tells him that he drives away, so he drives away. The road is empty, if you don't count the ghost cars. He doesn't.

Above, helicopters hover menacingly in the skies. He knows why. The man pulls up to the Moonlite All-Nite diner. It is the only way to placate the people in the helicopters. They do not like it when he is out and about. They do not like it when they don't know where he is going or what he is planning. They hadn't liked the same things about his father. Or his mother. Or his sister.

The man walks into the diner. "Hello, Mister Str-"

"Just Jim will do, Pamela." He tells the waitress. She nods and smiles; it is not the same smile she will someday use for emergency press conferences. He slides into a booth and she brings him the usual cup of coffee.

"Today's special is invisible corn!" Pamela announces brightly. "It's something new from John Peters. You know, the farmer?" He hadn't known. They haven't had a farmer in years, maybe decades. He is glad the waitress has reminded him. He has a feeling she has been reminding everyone. Perhaps in a few months, she won't have to. Maybe in a few years, one would just have to say _John Peters _and everyone in Night Vale would immediately place him as the farmer, no reminders required.

He doubts it. Things rarely change in Night Vale and the people are slow to adapt. Sheep, his father had called them. Sheep who were content to keep their eyes closed and simply listen to what the Council told them. The Council hadn't liked that about his father. Many people hadn't liked many things about his father.

Pamela waits for an order. He waves her away with a _no, thank you_ and that is the last we see of her because this is a story about him, not Pamela Winchell.

He sips on his coffee and toys with the charm that rests on his chest. It had been a present from his grandmother, the only one in their family who worshipped a Smiling God. On the front is a depiction of lips stretched too wide, unnaturally wide. And beyond that, a gaping maw. No teeth, only nothingness. On the back, an engraved message: _WORSHIP A SMILING GOD._

His grandmother had insisted that he wear it, even though the rest of his family had laughed in the face of a Smiling God. He had grudgingly slipped the chain over his neck, if only to placate his grandmother.

They had been the only two to survive the massacre of their family.

He doesn't know where she is now, his grandmother. He saw her after, at the funeral, and never again. Perhaps she has left. Perhaps he should leave. Outside, the helicopters hover still. He cannot imagine spending the rest of his potentially very, very long life evading them.

He sips at his coffee, only to find there is none left. So he hisses _check, please _and roots around for change as he waits. He finds a five-dollar bill in his pocket. It will make a nice tip for Pamela, but the price of the coffee is two crickets and half a strawberry. He searches his pockets. Finally, he comes up with the exact amount required.

He pays accordingly, waits for the swallowing sound and then walks out of the diner. The helicopters seem to stare menacingly at him… which is ridiculous because everyone knows helicopters are happy, friendly things by default. And yet…

The radio comes to life again as he pulls away from the diner. The man on the radio is still talking about him. Should he be worried about this? His story, his thoughts broadcasted on the radio for all to hear? Oh, well. The only people he has to fear are the Council and the Sheriff's Secret Police, and they already have a bug in his mind anyway.

He is on the main road now. The sun is setting. Helicopters lag behind him, trying to remain inconspicuous. The man feels as if he could drive forever.

The voice on the radio says something about the weather.

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The weather had been nice that day, he remembers. That had been… what? Four days ago? Probably. He's been driving non-stop. When did the helicopters stop following him? He can't even remember. He can barely remember anything, even as the voice on the radio narrates his life. Soon, that too fades away in a burst of loud static.

The display tells him his tank is still full. His legs don't feel sore at all. But his nails have grown, and he can feel tendrils of previously short hair brushing against his neck. It's irritating in this hot desert weather. Finally, he comes upon a sign. It tells him to take the next left to Desert Bluffs. That sounds like a nice place. Nicer than Night Vale, at least. Or so he hopes.

The townspeople seem friendly, he thinks. They wave as he drives through this unfamiliar town he's heard of all his life. He finds himself in front of a tea shop. He is oddly compelled to stop, so he stops.

He walks in and is greeted by a boy who introduces himself as Kevin. He gives his first name, Jim, and no last name. Kevin does not seem bothered by this. Kevin does not seem to be bothered by anything. He contemplates this until finally, he finds the answer staring him in the face. On the wall, on all the walls, there is a message. One message, repeated over and over.

_WORSHIP A SMILING GOD._

Kevin ushers him to a table and brings him a cup of tea. He's never had tea in his life. When the boy asks if he's just passing through or a new resident, he stares once more at the scribbles upon the walls and reaches for the metal triangle that hangs from his neck. He traces the engraved words on the back of its smooth, cool surface.

"I think I'll stay." He says, and he does.

He stays in Kevin's guest room. The boy is fifteen, maybe sixteen, but he lives on his own, in an apartment above the tea shop. His family does not approve of his love for hard work, he says. That is all he says about his family.

Days pass quickly. It is barely a week before he needs a haircut. He cannot remember the last time he'd needed one. His mother had trimmed his hair, he remembers, because Telly the Barber had been away on his annual holiday, giving free trims to wild cacti in the desert. So maybe… four decades ago?

He does not think of his mother after that. He does not think of Telly or Pamela or John Peters, you know, the farmer? He wonders sometimes if the voice on the radio is still telling his story. It is the only thing from his old life that still haunts him.

He builds a new life to forget the old. He meets a woman, Mary. He gets a job at the mayor's office. Weeks pass, and soon he lives in an apartment of his own. Months pass, and the apartment is his and Mary's. A year later, they share it with a loud, happy baby.

He loves his son. He _loves _his son. And that is why he decides to do what he eventually does. He needs to give his son a better life, a better future. His son will be a hard worker, like Kevin. His son will work as soon as he can. He will work all day, every day. It is the best way to remain vigilant. His father had stopped working, one day. Too many questions had plagued him, distracted him from his work. He quit, and the Sheriff's secret police came to their house soon after that. He can still remember the sound his sister had made as she dropped her book and tried to run away.

Another four months pass, and he stands proudly in front of his new building. Kevin stands beside him and together, they admire the glass and concrete monstrosity. A great triangle of silver crowns the building, and the words engraved upon it seem to burn with light as the sun shines upon the triangle.

_WORSHIP A SMILING GOD_.

"You're going to need a lot of people to fill this building up!" Kevin grins.

He turns to the boy. "How would you like to be the first one?"

"Me?" Kevin gasps. "You're offering me a job?"

"Yes, and I have just the right one in mind for you. We're going to need someone to connect us to the rest of the town. Someone to convince them that what they need in their lives is hard work and order. They need to _realize their full potential_. Today. They need to work for us _now_. I'm going to need someone to convince them, someone to say these things over and over until the people of Desert Bluffs see the truth in it. Has anyone ever told you," He pauses. It is meant to be significant. "That you have the perfect voice for radio?"

"Well…" Kevin drawls, but he does not confirm nor deny it. Kevin is a humble man. A good man. A hard worker. "Say no more, boss. When do I start?"

"After lunch." He smiles, and Kevin beams. He turns to the building he will now call his office and eyes the words that sit right under the great big triangle.

"Can I ask you something, boss?"

He motions for the boy to go ahead.

"Why did you pick that name for the company?"

"A tribute to my family. My old family." He clarifies. "And a legacy for my new one. For my son."

Kevin nods. "That's beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so, Kevin." He looks at the building, really looks. He looks past the constraints of time and sees into the future, sees what this building can be, what it will be.

"I have great plans for StrexCorp."

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Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Commonplace Books. It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor, and produced by Joseph Fink. The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin. Original music by Disparition. All of it can be found at disparition . info or at disparition . bandcamp . com. This episode's weather was Wasted Hours, by Arcade Fire. Find out more at arcadefire . com. Comments? Questions? Email us at nightvale commonplacebooks . com or follow us on Twitter at NightValeRadio. Check out commonplacebooks . com for more information on this show, as well as all sorts of cool Night Vale stuff you can own. And while you're there, consider clicking the donate link. That'd be cool of you.

Today's proverb: 'that's Hela.' 'Hella what, dude?' 'No, that is literally Hela, Norse goddess of death. Quick, run… if you can outrun death.'

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><p><strong>Don't even ask me what that was. It was an episode of Night Vale, duh. But no, please don't ask me what that was. I'm not quite sure myself. A writing exercise, I suppose.<strong>

**Comments? Questions? Email us at… wait. Oh, I got mixed up. Comments and questions are welcomed and encouraged. You can leave them in the review box, much easier than writing an email. Let me know how strongly you believe I should never, ever write in this fandom again. **

**I might take your advice.**

_**E Salvatore,**_

_**October 2014.**_


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